“Your brother,
“Anson Tarr.”
“Well,” exclaimed Caleb, with a sigh, as Brandon folded the document, “we’ve got the rights of it at last. Two hundred thousand dollars wuth o’ di’monds—for that’s what forty thousand pounds mean, I take it, eh, ’Doniram?”
“About that,” said the merchant. “You will be a very rich man, Don.”
“Let’s not count our chickens too soon,” said the youth, trying to stifle his excitement. “It seems too bewilderingly good to be true.”
“That’s a good idea about not countin’ our chickens,” said Caleb. “But we’ll have a whack at ’em just as soon as possible, my lad.”
“And you’ll let me furnish the vessel,” the merchant added.
“Let’s see,” said the old sailor. “You was saying something about havin’ one all ready. ’Doniram, wasn’t you?”
“One that can be ready in a week’s time, any way; and the craft you want, too—a whaleback.”
“I dunno,” said Caleb slowly. “I don’t fancy them new fangled things. What under the sun did you ever get a whaleback steamer for?”
Mr. Pepper looked at his old friend curiously, and his little eyes twinkled.